


About Family

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [54]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Families of Choice, Family Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-08 09:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8839738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: Porthos' line of work has brought him into contact with all kinds of families over the years. He'd be the first to point out that blood relations don't really matter at the end of the day - that family is a choice. He has the life experience to prove it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



It’s December.

The city has put up the usual Christmas decorations, despite an almost criminal lack of snow. Bows of artificial greenery span the streets, generously dotted with fairy lights, and shops and private residences alike have decorated their windows. It makes the walk home more enjoyable, even when the temperatures are far from what Porthos would consider fitting. It’s balmy and windy, as if spring was just around the corner … More or less the Christmas weather he’s gotten used to. He wouldn’t know what to do with a White Christmas at this point; and even when the temperatures don’t quite match the season, there’s barely any sunlight left after four in the afternoon. Since Porthos rarely leaves the orphanage before five it’s properly dark by the time he reaches home, making the Christmas lights seem all the brighter. He likes that. It’s festive.

Athos has ordered the usual wreath for the main entrance door at home, wishing the tenants and every passer-by a Very Merry Christmas. Porthos steps inside the lobby and immediately opens his jacket, undoes his scarf. Winter will never become his favourite season - not with the way shops tend to overheat and make their sensibly clad customers wish they were back out in the cold.

The lobby is moderately heated at least, and Porthos brings out his key ring to check their mail-box. He grabs a fat stack of envelopes and postcards out of the container and smiles to himself as he locks it back up. December has always been the month when his previous charges are the most inclined to pick up a pen and let him know how they’re doing. He loves getting those cards, even when they make him tear up nine times out of ten.

He takes his booty with him up the stairs, foregoing the elevator in favour of a little end of day workout. His thighs are pleasantly warm by the time he reaches the penthouse hallway, and he lets himself inside the apartment, hangs his scarf onto the wardrobe and deposits his cards on the low dresser to take off his jacket and shoes.

A quick look into the guestroom confirms that Aramis is busy at work, cast sticking out under the sewing table, and Porthos slips through the door, gets his welcome home kiss and a nice clingy hug. “How was your day?”

“Fruitful.” Aramis smiles as he looks up at him, relaxed and warm. “We may yet manage to finish all our Christmas orders in time.”

“I’m proud of you guys,” Porthos whispers, leaning in for another kiss. “You took all your breaks?”

“Yes, Athos made sure,” Aramis pouts, a faint glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “It’s almost as if you don’t trust me to take proper care of myself.”

“I always use myself as a model of procedure,” Porthos informs him solemnly.

Aramis sighs. “That explains a lot, actually.”

Porthos twinkles at him. “I’m gonna go and say hi to Athos, and make dinner. So don’t start anythin’ too fancy you can’t put down again, yeah?”

“Will do,” Aramis promises him, already refocusing on his sewing machine. He’s back to work by the time Porthos pulls the door shut behind him, and Porthos grins to himself as he picks the stack of mail up from the sideboard and carries it into the living room. Athos isn’t there. So the stack goes onto the couch table, and Porthos turns, walks back down the hallway and towards Athos’ room, knocks on the door.

“Come in!” Athos is in his undershirt, painting by the open window, and Porthos shudders. It might not be freezing outside, but that doesn’t mean it’s _warm_. “Will you stop doin’ that!” he exclaims, marching forward to close the window. He sighs when he spies Howard and Tom out on the fire escape, but they’re easy to catch, meow at him in welcome as he dumps them on Athos’ bed. “It’s eight degrees outside, Athos!”

“I enjoy the fresh air,” Athos justifies himself, serenely applying paint to his canvas. “It is invigorating.”

“One of these days your kidneys are going to flee your body, I just know it,” Porthos mutters. He stalks to Athos’ wardrobe, finds one of his own faded sweatshirts inside, and marches back to Athos to pull it over his head. “At least put on somethin’ WARM, you noodle.” He takes Athos’ paintbrush from him so he can shove his arms into the sleeves, and turns to take a look at what Athos is painting. It turns out to be a picture of a smiling Aramis, fast asleep on the couch in the living room, and Porthos remembers how he came home to Athos sketching him, remembers that Athos intends to give this picture to Aramis’ parents as a Christmas present.

Athos reclaims his paintbrush with an absent-minded expression on his face, and Porthos sighs, reaches out to stroke the hair out of his eyes. “Get cleaned up for dinner, will you.”

“Yes,” Athos says, focussing on him suddenly. “Welcome home.” He goes to his tip-toes to brush a kiss to Porthos’ mouth, puts a hand on Porthos’ chest to steady himself.

Both his lips and his hand are cold, but Porthos keeps perfectly still, receives that kiss with all signs of pleasure. “Picture looks good,” he comments once Athos has pulled back, grins a little. “You’ve captured his essence.”

“He makes it easy,” Athos replies, voice incredibly even, mind still focussed on the two pictures - the one on the canvas, and the one in his head.

Porthos leaves him be. He leaves the room, accompanied by the kittens, and starts to make dinner as they stroke around his legs in the eternal, undying hope of sudden treats. Santiago comes out from wherever he was hiding to be especially affectionate and start a rather adventurous climb up Porthos’ left leg. Porthos pets his head and shakes him off. He’d prepared a duck to go into the oven on the previous day, so he turns up the heat and sets the timer, and then gets some potatoes and red cabbage out of the pantry. By the time they’re cooking in their respective pots on the stove Athos joins him in front of the kitchen counter, freshly showered and with a towel around his neck. “That smells really good.”

Porthos smiles at him and gets another welcome home kiss - warmer this time, with slightly more verve. They sit down on the couch and Porthos grabs the stack of mail off the table, filters out the advertising and the letters addressed to Athos and Aramis … grunts in sudden, unexpected disgust.

Blast it all to hell and back.

Next to him, Athos snaps to immediate attention. “What.”

“This one’s from Belgard,” Porthos growls, brandishing the letter.

Athos’ face morphs into a thundercloud of doom. “Throw it out.”

“What, unopened?”

“Do you need another artful exhibit of lies and excuses?” Athos hisses, barely able to contain his hatred. “The man had his chance, and he threw it away - thirty years ago.”

Porthos sighs. It’s not like Athos is wrong - on the contrary. But he hasn’t heard from Belgard in … oh, more than ten years now. There must be a reason he suddenly decided to write. So Porthos opens the envelope, despite Athos’ palpable disapproval, and pulls out a sheet of expensive stationary, covered in lofty, elegant handwriting.

 _Porthos_ , it starts, and Porthos is glad that there’s no prefix of affection, that the man doesn’t call him his son. Because he isn’t.

_I am quite sorry for disregarding your wish to stay out of your life. This is no attempt to change your mind, or ingratiate myself where I am not wanted. But it has recently come to my attention that I have a daughter - that you have a sister - and I thought that you should know. If you wish to meet her, I would be happy to introduce the two of you -_

That isn’t the end of it, but Porthos doesn’t read the rest. He blinks and looks up, stares blankly at the opposite wall. He feels numb, but only for a moment. Then it all rushes to the surface, spreads out like an oil spill in the ocean, contaminates everything it touches. He hands the letter over to Athos without saying a single word, gets up from the couch and paces back and forth, restless. His mind is a whirl of conflicting emotions and impulses, and part of him wants to run - just run, no matter where, and scream until this feeling goes away.

Because it can’t be right to hate your own father so much that it taints even the possibility of having a sibling. Porthos would love to have a sister, would love to have a family, but Belgard knows that, and Porthos doesn’t trust him not to use that knowledge to his own advantage.

Athos was right. He should have burned the damn letter.

Athos’ face, when Porthos stops pacing to look at him, is carefully devoid of emotion, and he folds the letter, slips it back into its envelope, and puts it on the table. “I truly hate that man.” Then he gets up from the sofa, crosses the space between Porthos and himself with a few, hasty strides, and pulls Porthos into his arms, holds him tight. “Please don’t be sad.”

At first Porthos doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Then he realizes that he’s crying - tears of anger, and loss, and confusion, and pushes his face into Athos’ drying hair, gulps down breaths of air. “What do I do?”

“I don’t know,” Athos murmurs, stroking both hands over Porthos’ back. “Do you want to meet her?”

“Do we think she even exists?” Porthos chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut until he sees stars. “I mean, where’s she come from all of a sudden?”

“Her mother might have decided that she would be better off without her biological father,” Athos says softly. “Like yours did.”

Even the mention of her in this context makes Porthos’ tears well up faster. It’s difficult not to blame Belgard for her death. Because the man makes it very easy to blame him for everything.

“What’s going on?” Aramis sounds worried, his voice tentative and scared. “What happened?”

Porthos didn’t even hear him leave the guest room, didn’t hear him come around the corner. He slips out from Athos’ embrace and wipes his eyes, tries to get a grip on himself. He’s never told Aramis, he realizes. Because as far as he was concerned, he didn’t have a father, and Aramis didn’t need to know the ugly details. Fuck. He looks over at Aramis, and he doesn’t know what to say - for a moment he can’t even move.

And then Aramis hobbles forward on his crutches, lets them fall to the floor once he reaches Porthos, and throws his arms around him. Just holds him. Porthos sniffs.

He knows that he needs to tell Aramis those ugly details now, and part of him doesn’t want to. It all happened so long ago, and while he could never forget or forgive, he’d managed to put it behind him. He shouldn’t have just burned that letter, but detonated it.

Porthos holds on tight to Aramis for a long moment, draws strength from his closeness. Then he straightens, lets go and bends down to pick Aramis’ crutches off the floor. “I need to tell you somethin’.”

“Is everything okay at the orphanage?” Aramis asks, eyes wide open and afraid, and Porthos reaches out to squeeze his shoulder, wipes at his eyes again with his free hand. “Yeah, don’t worry. This is … about somethin’ else.”

Aramis frowns. “Okay. Shall we sit down?”

“We better,” Porthos mutters. “This is gonna take a while.”

“I shall make tea,” Athos says in a low voice and steps away.

Porthos sighs. He watches Aramis hobble over to the couch and stow the crutches away, and sits down as well - not next to him, but at an angle, wants to look at Aramis while he talks to him, but still be able to touch. There’s a moment of silence, and then Porthos lifts his face, looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. “This is about my biological father,” he says gruffly, has to force out the words.

When he brings his glare back down from the ceiling Aramis is staring at him. Porthos can tell that he has Questions. He can tell that Aramis wants to ask him quite a number of things; people generally do in this situation. But Aramis doesn’t ask. He waits. Because the kind of questions that are usually asked at a time like this are bound to be both mildly hurtful and redundant, and Aramis is neither. It’s not like Porthos needed a reminder as to why he’s in love with the man, but it certainly helps, right at this moment.

“I know who he is,” Porthos admits, keeping his chin up and looking Aramis square in the eyes. “I’ve known since I turned twenty one.”

Aramis remains silent. He looks just as uncertain as Porthos feels, and Porthos watches him lick his lips, watches the questions line up behind his eyes, until he picks the most sensible one and pushes it out onto his tongue. “Does he … does he know you exist?”

Porthos growls. “Oh yeah, he knows. He’s always known.”


	2. Chapter 2

For a moment Aramis’ face looks perfectly blank. Then the misery pours in. Because Aramis is one of the most emphatic people Porthos has ever met, and he knows how Porthos feels about this, knows what it must be like.

“But I thought -” Aramis stops himself, gnaws on his bottom lip, and shakes his head. He’s hit on the obvious, the only explanation, and doesn’t want to believe it. Porthos can relate. Been there, done that. He watches Aramis swallow around the lump in his throat. “You mean when your Mother - when she died - he just … did nothing?” The last two words come out soft and broken, like a little bird that’s fallen out of its nest.

Porthos nods. “Yeah. That’s precisely what he did.” He’s more angry than sad now, but Aramis still closes the gap between them and pulls him into his arms. “I’m so sorry.”

Porthos closes his eyes and leans into him, takes a deep, steadying breath. Aramis is warm, and he smells like home, and that’s what Porthos needs right now.

“Oh, but there’s more,” Athos says, joining them with the teapot. Aramis and Porthos part, and watch him pour the tea, his hands perfectly steady despite the murderous expression on his face. “The moment Porthos turned twenty one, his so-called father suddenly appeared on our doorstep. He wanted them to be a family, he said, wanted Porthos to move in with him and _catch up_.” Athos sounds as venomous as he looks, and Aramis takes Porthos’ hand, links their fingers. “I admit readily that part of the reason why I did not want this to happen was quite horribly selfish,” Athos goes on, sitting down across from them, “but as it turned out my own selfishness was but a blip on the radar in comparison to Belgard’s.”

Aramis blinks at the mention of the name, and sits up a little straighter. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“Because he’s rich,” Athos hisses, “and a lawyer - and quite fond of the limelight.”

The information only appears to add to Aramis’ confusion. “But if he’s rich, why didn’t he -”

“Because he wasn’t quite as rich at the time, and didn’t want the responsibility,” Porthos growls. “He didn’t wanna have to take care of a kid when my Mom got pregnant, so he dumped her. And when he read in the papers that she’d died he didn’t spare me a second thought, because I was just a useless little boy, wasn’t I?” He growls the words, because it still hurts, even after all this time, and he can’t make them come out smooth and cool, doesn’t know how. He’s taken care of so many kids over the years, and yeah, it’s been hard sometimes, but then it’s also been quite easy. All you have to do is care.

“You see, Belgard hadn’t bothered to check where Porthos ended up,” Athos picks up the tale when Porthos remains silent. “Why would he.” His voice is heavy with sarcasm, and Porthos realizes that Athos is just as angry and indignant about this now as he was back then. That he can’t forgive or forget, just like himself. “But as it happened Porthos not only ended up in our orphanage, he also ended up in the newspaper. It was a fluff piece - the kind the public likes. A boy who had overcome the disadvantages of his birth to help others like him. It was supposed to garner support for the orphanage and it did - got Belgard’s attention as well.”

Porthos balls his hands to fists and tries to hold back the memories. He’d been so happy back then, so naive. He’d been ready to welcome Belgard with open arms, just because he was blood, because he was a charming liar with all the right excuses.

“What happened?” Aramis asks in the uncomfortable silence, and Porthos gently pulls his hand out of Aramis’ grasp, takes a mug of tea off the table, takes a mechanical sip. “He wan’ed me because I was useful. Because I had connections.”

“Myself, among others,” Athos drawls. “My family. Our circle. When Belgard found out how well-liked Porthos was by everyone he decided he had a son after all. He certainly needed the image boost.”

Aramis shakes his head, a heavy frown on his face, and looks like he doesn’t know what to say. Porthos doesn’t blame him. Apart from the obvious remarks there is nothing to say.

“We found out,” Athos continues smoothly. “I was skeptical of Belgard the moment he showed up, and the Captain did not like him either. They had met, you see, when the Captain was still studying to become a lawyer. His recollections of the man weren’t precisely fond.”

Porthos sighs and briefly closes his eyes against the tide of memories flooding in. He didn’t want to believe them at first, but in the end he couldn’t help himself. Because Belgard was rubbish at pretending he cared, and the private detective Athos had hired really very good at her job. It’s incredible what people will tell each other in the presence of their staff.

“Told him I wanted nothin’ to do with him when I finally allowed myself to realize what was goin’ on,” he tells Aramis, sinking back against the backrest of the couch with the mug in his hand. “Haven’t heard from him in ten years. That’s why I didn’t tell you about him. I try not to think about him if I don’t have to.”

“Today this arrived in the mail,” Athos says, handing Aramis the letter. Aramis reads it, and his eyes widen before his expression turns into a grimace. “Fuck,” he says, very eloquently.

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. “I really don’t wanna see him again.”

“But I think she should be warned,” Aramis muses handing back the letter. “We can’t let him just … have her.”

There is that, of course. Porthos has no idea who she is, or if she even exists, but if she does, he needs to be there for her. He’s no longer twenty one, no longer blinded by the sudden possibility of being with his father. But she might be. For all he knows she could be a _child_. He needs to protect her.

“Whatever you do,” Athos says slowly, “I am going to come with you.”

“Me too,” Aramis says immediately. “You don’t have to go alone.”

Porthos dips sideways and into Aramis’ lap. “Thank you.” Aramis promptly puts a hand in Porthos’ curls and starts petting him, and the red rage inside Porthos fades a little.

“Do you want me to contact him?” Athos asks then, his tone caught somewhere between hopeful and vindictive. “Set up an appointment via his secretary?”

“Yeah,” Porthos murmurs, stretching out on the couch so he can turn his face towards Aramis, press it into the soft fabric of the pullover he’s wearing. “I really don’t wanna have to call him.”

“I shall be very efficient,” Athos proclaims. “I shall be snobbish and exceedingly polite.”

Porthos grins. “Knew I could count on you.” Over by the kitchen area, the timer beeps. So he heaves himself off the couch and checks on the duck, pokes the potatoes, and decides that everything needs a few more minutes. Nevertheless Athos helps him set the table, his expression carefully smooth. “I’m alright,” Porthos tells him quietly.

“You are repressing,” Athos counters.

Porthos shrugs. “Well … yeah. Can’t allow myself to get excited yet, can I? I have to wait … meet her first. Otherwise I’ll get ahead of myself, like I did the last time, and everything’ll go arse over tits.”

Athos sighs. “I am so sorry that you have to go through this again.”

Porthos places the carving knife on the table, very carefully, and remains still for a moment. “Thing is … it can’t be as bad as the last time. It just can’t. Provided I can control myself not to punch him in front of her, we should be fine.” That earns him a pleased little smile from Athos, and Porthos continues to lay the table, straightens and stretches his arms above his head. “I wonder what the Captain will say.”

“You mean after all the swearing?” Athos drawls, exchanging a smile with Aramis. “He will probably tell you to be careful … or offer to shoot him for you. I cannot decide.”

Porthos chuckles and his heart feels a little lighter, the pressure on his chest a little easier. Oh well. He can always treat this as professional experience - something to have in common with his kids. It’s certainly easier to handle these issues for them if he’s gone through it first himself. His past has always helped him in that way; it was always a boon, not a burden.

He checks on the food again, deems the duck ready for consumption, and tells Athos to drain the potatoes, preferably without hurting himself.

“It happened _once_ ,” Athos points out, taking care to avoid the scalding steam as he empties the pot into the sink, holding the potatoes back with the lid. “Will you stop making fun of me for it.”

“You gettin’ hurt isn’t fun,” Porthos informs him. “And you’re always a bit slow when you come out of the paintin’ haze.”

“Fair enough,” Athos sighs, putting the potatoes in a decorative serving bowl instead of leaving them in the pot like they usually do.

Porthos pulls up his eyebrows. “It’s not Christmas yet, you know.”

“I feel like it,” Athos says. “Must be because of the duck. Does anyone else want wine for dinner?”

They do. So they sit down for dinner at a lavishly set table, including the nice tableware and fancy napkins, and Aramis gets delightfully tipsy on two glasses of wine. They put him to bed early, and Athos joins him with Pratchett’s Hogfather, while Porthos decides to work off some steam. He gets out a yoga mat and takes it to the living room, does sit-ups, push-ups and squats, focussing on the burn in his muscles instead of anything else that might cross his mind. The kittens are delighted by his display and undertake several attempts to climb him, and Santiago actually manages to stay on his shoulders for the push-ups, makes Porthos giggle and very nearly faceplant into the mat.

Eventually he gives up, sits down cross-legged and allows the kittens to climb up into his lap. They’re getting bigger and fluffier each day, and Porthos lifts Tom up to his face, receives a gentle paw on the nose for his efforts. He sighs. As soon as he stopped moving the worry and anger poured back in, and he has a vague premonition that it’s not going to improve until he’s actually met his father and sister, until he knows for sure what the hell is going on - what Belgard wants this time.

Porthos groans. He hates this. But the kittens are cute, and he’s got his boys, so he knows that he’s going to be fine. Even if his sister decides to like their father … that’ll be fine, too. Porthos has a family. He always had one. They’re not bound by blood, but by love and devotion, by a sense of responsibility, maybe even honour. Porthos doesn’t need a sister. Still, it would be nice to have one.

He sighs and gets up from the floor, allows the kittens to join him in the bathroom and watch him while he takes a shower. He doesn’t know why, but they seem to enjoy that kind of thing. These weirdos. Porthos turns off the water and steps out of the shower cabin, grabs himself a towel and dries off while Howard makes sure that he survived all that water by streaking around his ankles and rubbing himself against his wet shins. “You’re a great help,” he tells his honour guard as they accompany him to the bedroom - feels a minor pang of guilt when he closes the door in their furry little faces despite it all.

Athos looks up when Porthos steps inside the bedroom, watches him rummage around for clean shorts and his pyjama pants and allows him to climb over him into the middle of the bed. “Feel better?”

“A bit,” Porthos murmurs, lying down. Next to him Aramis makes a little noise in his sleep and cuddles closer. Porthos smiles. “Isn’t he adorable.”

“Immensely,” Athos agrees, putting his book away. “What do you need?”

Porthos blinks at him. “Need?”

Athos sighs and turns off the bedside lamp, attaches himself to Porthos’ side immediately afterwards. “Just let me hold you, yes?”

Porthos looks up at the dark ceiling and smiles to himself. “D’you intend to coddle me until all this blows over?”

“Most definitely, yes,” Athos tells him, brushing a kiss to Porthos’ neck. “And you are going to let me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of stoppin’ you,” Porthos whispers happily.


	3. Chapter 3

Porthos gets a good night of sleep, and goes to work the next morning as if nothing had happened. Because nothing has. He enters the orphanage, frees himself of his jacket, and jogs up the stairs to get Jasmine dressed and ready for a day among the beasts. Elodie greets him with a smile when he enters her room after a respectful knock, and joins him in front of the cradle. “She slept all through the night! My own private Christmas miracle!”

Porthos grins and picks up the baby, snuggles her close. “Her timin’ is impeccable.”

Little Jasmine chooses this moment to make full use of her diapers, and Elodie breaks into a peal of laughter. “Impeccable timing indeed!”

Porthos wrinkles his nose and proceeds to clean up the baby, and half an hour later he joins the rest of his charges for a second breakfast. Elodie went down before him, and now she’s busy distributing milk and cocoa among the children, as well as the occasional cup of tea.

Porthos settles down in his usual spot next to the Captain, baby in his lap, and the man takes one peek at him to know that something is up. Porthos senses him tense, watches him frown, and sighs. “What.”

The Captain narrows his eyes at him. “You tell me.”

“I got mail,” Porthos rumbles obediently.

“Vague,” the Captain comments. “Did you win the lottery?”

“The sibling lottery, maybe,” Porthos grunts. “At least Belgard says I did.” There’s a dangerous moment of silence. Porthos watches as the Captain’s hand clenches around the knife lying next to his breakfast plate, and clears his throat. “Mind the kids.”

“I am minding them,” the man forces out through his teeth. “Couldn’t you have told me this in private?”

“Naw, I already had to deal with the righteous wrath from Athos,” Porthos sighs. “D’you wanna read the letter?”

“I don’t know,” the Captain grumbles. “Am I allowed to spit on it?”

“As far as I’m concerned you can use it in the lavatory,” Porthos grins, oddly entertained by his foster father’s obvious disgruntlement. Eh, well, maybe it’s not so odd. Because Treville is angry at the right person, and for the right reasons. So it’s quite lovely anger, as far as Porthos is concerned. The kind of anger he doesn’t mind one bit.

He manages to fiddle the letter out of the back pocket of his jeans without dropping the baby, and hands it over - just in time for Elodie to show up with a bottle of milk. “Here. We don’t want her to get fussy.”

“Thank you,” Porthos says, and proceeds to slip the nozzle into Jasmine’s waiting mouth. At the other end of the table Charon is feeding Gwen, and Porthos is quite aware of Flea and Elodie exchanging a look of glee over this. He doesn’t mind. In fact he’s rather proud.

The Captain reads the letter in silence, harrumphs, and folds it back up. “What do you intend to do about this?”

“Athos’ll make an appointment with him, and then we’re gonna find out what this is all about,” Porthos discloses, his attention on the ravenous child in his arms.

Treville sighs. “I suppose you must.”

“Yeah, I do,” Porthos says quietly.

Treville looks at him for a long moment, and then he tips sideways, gives Porthos a one-armed but nevertheless steadying hug. “You’ll be alright,” he promises. “It’ll be okay.”

Porthos very nearly starts to cry right then and there, and he can’t even say why. He also has the room’s full attention. But as long as he doesn’t know the details, he’s not going to share this with the kids. Afterwards he can tell them, but not before.

The same is not true for Flea and Charon, who corner him in the kitchen after breakfast and make him spill the beans and very nearly the cornflakes as well. Porthos manages to catch the container before it falls and puts it up into the shelf and out of harm’s way.

Flea pokes him in the ribs. “Tell us!”

So Porthos tells them, gets another round of hugs and offers of murder, and feels quite pleased with his family for a few hours. The feeling lasts until shortly after lunch, when he gets a call from where the younger kids are going to school - from the Headmistress herself even. Porthos sighs. Teddy had been doing so well. “What’d he do?” he asks, already pinching the bridge of his nose in anticipation of her reply.

“You need to come and get Peter,” she says, to Porthos’ utter and complete bewilderment. “He fought with another boy. It got physical … ended in a broken nose.”

“But - but -” Porthos sputters, and she sighs. “Yes, I know. Please hurry. The other parent is very … ungracious.”

Thus Porthos hurries. He forgoes the bus the children take in the mornings in favour of traversing the distance on foot, and arrives at the school both out of breath and disbelieving. Because … Peter. Peter never fights with anyone. He’s the sweetest kid ever, and that includes completely unrealistic TV children taken straight out of Christmas movies. As much as he loves dressing up as Spider Man, he’s actually a little Captain America in the making. All he needs is his Bucky, or possibly a Peggy. Peter seems to be a bit undecided about that at the moment. Porthos can relate. What he cannot, is understand what happened here. Peter will have to explain, very slowly.

When Porthos arrives at the Headmistress’ door a very irate looking woman in a very expensive coat is sitting in a chair out front, getting to her feet when Porthos stops to catch his breath. “Are you that little monster’s father?”

Porthos draws himself up to his full height, because whatever Peter did, this he will not let pass. “I’m Peter’s guardian, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t give him a bad example by calling him names.”

His words don’t seem to register with her, at all. “My precious boy is in the infirmary because of that little animal!” she yells. “I want him expelled!”

Porthos frowns, bites back a retort, and knocks on the Headmistress’ door. He steps inside as soon as she asks him to, and closes the door in the other parent’s face. He has Opinions about mothers who’d rather sit in a draughty corridor so they can harass passing strangers instead of staying with their kids when they’re hurt.

That thought all but evaporates when Porthos spots Peter, sitting in a chair underneath the big window overlooking the playground outside, currently empty. He crosses the Headmistress’ office in a few hasty strides and without acknowledging her existence, crouches down and puts his hand to Peter’s cheek, makes him look up and growls when he sees the black eye from close up, inspects Peter’s hands for injuries and finds the right one a little bruised as well. “Jesus Christ.”

Peter bites his lip, and gives his best not to cry. “I’m sorry.”

The Headmistress clears her throat. “He refused to be taken to the infirmary on the grounds of ‘deserving the pain’.”

It makes Porthos smile, despite everything. “No, you don’t, buddy. No matter what you did.” He ruffles Peter’s hair, very gently, and sits down on the floor in front of him, crosses his legs. “Tell me what happened.”

“I had to protect Teddy,” Peter tells him obediently. “Hudson was bullying him.”

That certainly sheds some light on the matter. Porthos is a little peeved with the Headmistress that she didn’t lead her phone call with that piece of information. Instead of calling her out on it he keeps his attention on Peter, keeps smiling at him to let him know that he didn’t do anything wrong. “How?” he asks, because this is important. It’s also important that Teddy didn’t clobber the bully himself. Because Teddy is a big, strong kid, and he used to be quite liberal with his fists when he first came to the orphanage.

“He called him names,” Peter says, sounding miserable and angry. “He said he was stupid, and that Teddy’s Mom must have been an idiot for marrying his Dad, and that she deserved -” Here Peter stops, and a big tear rolls down his cheek. “That’s when I shoved him, really hard.”

The Headmistress, who is quite familiar with Teddy’s file and familial background, gently clears her throat. “You are not in trouble for that, Peter.”

“It was so mean!” Peter sobs. “Hudson is always mean, but he used to stay away from Teddy because he was afraid of him. Only then he noticed Teddy didn’t want to hurt anybody anymore, and then it got really bad really quick, and Teddy didn’t want anyone to tell you, because the Captain said it was important that he learned to control his temper, _but it just wasn’t fair_.”

Another tear joins the first, and Porthos pulls on Peter’s arm until the boy slips off his chair and climbs into his lap for a hug. For a moment Peter clings to him with all the strength in his skinny little body. Then he goes limp. “I didn’t mean to break his nose.”

“Hudson charged at him,” the Headmistress says in a quiet voice. “All Peter did was move out of the way.”

Porthos takes a relieved breath. “Did he hit you before or after that?”

“Before,” Peter mumbles. “Can we go home now? My hand really hurts from when he stepped on it.”

Porthos has to bite down on a growl and looks at the Headmistress. “Can I take Teddy as well?”

She smiles and nods. “I left him in class so he wouldn’t have to confront Mrs Preston.”

Peter sniffs and climbs out of Porthos’ lap, offers him his good hand to help him up, and Porthos takes it as he rises to his feet. “What’s going to happen to Hudson?” Peter asks.

“I fear we have to expel him,” the Headmistress replies evenly. “We do not condone bullying.”

Peter looks blank for a moment, then he nods. “Good. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Porthos could smish him silly. He holds on to Peter’s hand as the Headmistress walks them to her door. Instead of making them let go so they can shake hands she squeezes first Porthos’ shoulder and then Peter’s, offers them a warm smile. “I am sorry that your day had to be disrupted like this. You may stay at home for a few days, Peter, if you wish to.” With that she sees them out, opens the door and tells Mrs Preston to join her.

Porthos walks through the quiet halls of the school, still holding Peter’s hand, and tries to find the right words to tell the boy that he did good. Oh well. The basics’ll have to do. “You did good.”

Peter grimaces. “Not really.”

“You stood up to a bully,” Porthos says, something fierce in his voice. “That was very brave.”

“Yes, but now that I met Mrs Preston, I feel kind of bad for Hudson,” Peter mumbles. “I mean his name is Hudson Preston. What was she thinking.”

Porthos has to suppress another urge to smish the boy, and gives his hand a squeeze. “Let’s get Teddy and get out of here. We can go and get waffles or somethin’. My treat.”

He lets Peter lead the way to Teddy’s class, knocks and opens the door to the interested stares of not quite twenty children and one teacher. “I’m here for Theodore Lucas.”

The teacher nods, and Teddy jumps up from his chair and rushes to the door, makes a beeline for Peter and brakes just in time, looks Peter up and down. “Are you okay?”

Porthos waves at teacher and kids, pulls Teddy through the door and closes it. Before he can say or do anything, Teddy has leaned forward and pressed a very gentle kiss to Peter’s cheek. “Thank you for protecting me.”

In retrospect, Porthos kind of understands why Flea was always so very adamant about Athos and him being made for each other. God help him, this is adorable.

He takes the kids to the infirmary to get an ice pack for Peter’s eye, where they do a pretty good job of ignoring Hudson moaning on the bed in the corner. Teddy looks grim when they leave the school, and Porthos gently steers him towards the bus stop, so they can relocate to the cozy little diner close to the orphanage, because it’s Teddy’s favourite place and Peter insists. They settle down at a table, the kids on one red upholstered bench and Porthos on the one opposite. Porthos orders hot cocoa for all three of them while the boys squabble over which pies to get. They remain with three final contestants, so Porthos orders them all, three giant slices, and decrees that the plates shall be rotated so everyone gets a taste of everything. The waitress is quick to oblige, and it might just be that their slices are even bigger than usual, due to Peter’s bedraggled appearance.

Porthos watches the boys fork down their first bites and takes a sip of his cocoa, then he clears his throat. “Can you two listen to me for a moment?”

Teddy freezes in the motion of attacking another slice of pie, and looks up at him out of worried blue eyes. “Are we in trouble?”

Porthos grimaces and scratches his head. “No. Definitely not. I mean - you should have told someone what was going on with Hudson. Either me, or one of the teachers - or your Headmistress. She’s a nice lady, and she would have helped you.”

“I thought we were supposed to try to get along, no matter what,” Teddy argues. “I … I didn’t want to worry anyone.”

Porthos sighs. “Yeah, okay, I’ll give you that. Generally speakin’ you have to try to get along with everyone. But there are limits to that, and when someone breaks the rules, you go and get help. Even when the teachers tell you that’s just how it is - you come to me, or anyone else at home, and we talk about it, okay? We’re there to worry about you. It’s our job. Well, part of our job. I don’t want you to feel like you have to deal with stuff on your own, because you don’t. I’ll always be on your side, I promise.”

Peter nods, looking incredibly serious. Porthos smiles at him. “Next time anyone at school causes you any trouble, you talk to me, okay?”

Peter nods again. “Yes.”

Teddy is frowning. “I really, really wanted to hit Hudson.”

“I know you did, buddy,” Porthos says quietly. “And I’m proud of you for holding back.”

“Yes, you were like the Hulk when he learned to control his rage,” Peter says admiringly. “It was cool.”

Teddy blushes. Porthos has to drown his glee in cocoa.


	4. Chapter 4

A few days pass.

At the orphanage Peter’s eye turns from black to greenish yellow under Teddy’s careful ministrations. He puts healing salve on the bruise, checks its progress every morning, and won’t allow anyone else to touch it - or Peter, for that matter. It’s not that he yells at anyone to leave him alone, no - Teddy adopts a very calm, earnest voice to inform his foster siblings that Peter is hurt and needs them to be extra careful with him. Works like magic, every time. They’ve taken to sitting together on the ride to school, too. Porthos wonders where this will lead. Flea wonders if they’re in store for another tale of stupidity and denial to last them for the next twenty years. Charon finds his first grey hair.

At home - or rather at the doctor - Aramis finally gets rid of his cast and expresses a desire to take up dancing lessons to properly celebrate. Athos makes the threatened appointment with Belgard via his secretary, and tells Porthos that Belgard appears to be very annoyed by this. Porthos draws strength from that. Because he’s pretty damn nervous. What if his sister doesn’t _like_ him. Stranger things have happened.

“Are you kidding me?” Elodie asks him when he shares this fear with her. “Do you have any idea how disgustingly loveable you are?”

They’re in the big common room, overseeing playtime while Flea and Charon prepare dinner. Jasmine is asleep in a nest of blankets on the window sill, out of harm’s reach but still pretty much in the middle of things. Turns out she sleeps best amongst screaming children. Who would have known.

Porthos looks up at Elodie from his place on the floor where he’s sitting with Annie in his lap, braiding her hair, and can’t keep himself from dimpling. “I am?” He’s used code language with Elodie to keep Annie or any of the present kids from understanding what they’re talking about, made it sound as if the person in question was purely hypothetical.

It made Elodie roll her eyes a lot. “Urgh,” she says now. “Stop it.”

Porthos dimples some more and concentrates on what he’s doing, fixes a neat little bow clip to the end of Annie’s braid. “There, all pretty.” She turns around to reward him with a kiss, then scampers off to join whatever’s going on at the other end of the room.

Porthos gets to his feet, stretches his arms above his head. Elodie looks him up and down and pokes him in the ribs. “You’re _nervous_.”

“Well … yeah,” he admits, retreating from her attack, executing a neat little pirouette. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“I’d probably barf for a week,” Elodie muses. “But seriously, Porthos: you have nothing to fear. You make friends everywhere you go. I mean, we met when you were out shopping for a scratch post for your cats, and now you’re about to become godfather to my child. You’re _good_.”

Porthos sighs. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

She gives him a hug and pats his belly, whispers in his ear. “That sister of yours is bound to love you, trust me.”

Porthos has to clear his throat and blink a few times, and she pats his butt and lets go of him. “Jesus, you’re sensitive. Since I mentioned it: If you want to, I can finally tackle that cat amusement park sometime during the next week. I certainly feel up to it, and the material is only collecting dust back home in my apartment.”

“I’m gonna ask Athos,” Porthos promises her. “Have you contacted Anne yet?”

“Nope, I wanted to make sure that the big spender will be available to supervise first,” she says, walking over to her daughter who has awakened with an attitude and makes noises of disgruntlement. Porthos watches her pick up the baby and smiles. She’s right. He’ll be fine.

He walks home that evening accompanied by a balmy breeze and with an open jacket, and tries to get into the holiday spirit. They’ve decorated the apartment on the first advent, have hung glass baubles in the windows and allowed Aramis to run wild with the candles. The few knick knacks they distributed around the place both catch the eye and are pretty much indestructible - as they found out when Tom started to test for precisely that, methodically, one after the other. Athos has taken to spraying him with a water gun whenever he catches him even thinking about it.

Porthos has got all his Christmas presents in order, too - a nice new easel for Athos (one that’s a little more resistant to the kittens’ claws and their attempts to climb it), and absolutely stunning linen for Aramis, light and soft and perfect for someone who enjoys sleeping naked as much as he does.

The thing is … not that Porthos isn’t feeling festive. The _thing_ is that he’s been deliriously happy for months now, and cannot imagine that Christmas has even the slightest chance of topping that. He’s in such a good place with his boys, his kids are as happy as they are healthy, he’s made new friends, and maybe even a new sister.

Aramis would probably freak out at this point, fearing that it might all go away, and panic about things being too good to be true. Porthos can’t do that. He’s happy, and he’s at peace with it, and if Belgard wants to challenge that, he’d better bring his a-game. Because Porthos is ready.

 

The day of the appointed meeting starts harmlessly enough. It’s a Saturday, allowing them to share a nice, comfortable breakfast. Aramis makes full use of the fact that he’s freed from his cast by playing footsie with Porthos under the table, giggling every time one of the kittens comes to investigate what they’re doing. So far Porthos has managed to remain remarkably calm, possibly because Athos is agitated enough for the both of them.

“Relax,” Porthos tells him when he watches Athos pour his third cup of coffee. “You can always start to talk about your parents’ titles when he gets too annoying.” Athos grunts and sips his coffee, and Porthos smiles at him. “You’re cute when you’re all protective and fluffed up.”

Athos grimaces and hunches up his shoulders. “I am glad that you can be this relaxed about it after all, but I am somewhat apprehensive about the possibility that I might bite your father in front of your sister.”

Porthos shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind, and if she’s worth her salt, she won’t either.” Athos blinks at him, rather surprised, and Porthos takes a deep breath. “Look. I don’t want to play hide and seek with her. I don’t want to make a secret of my dislike for him, or have to lie to her in any way. She’ll have to accept that I don’t want a relationship with him, no matter what transpires between me and her. She’ll also have to accept the fact that I love both you and Aramis, and that you, my dear Athos, tend to be rather unforgiving of people who hurt me.”

Athos blushes at that point, ever so faintly, and Aramis delicately clears his throat. “Does that mean I’m allowed to be rude? I mean … I don’t tend to be - I’m probably going to be mute and overwhelmed rather than rude, but I just want to make sure.”

“You tell him about the nice tea party Athos took you to if you wanna be rude, muffin,” Porthos tells him lovingly. “It’s my connections to the nobbs he wan’ed me for, so that’s gonna piss him right off.”

Aramis beams at him. “Will do.”

Athos utters something that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. “I love how you sound all rough and tumble when you talk about him.”

Porthos sits up very straight and lifts his nose, takes care to enunciate and roll all his vowels. “We cannot all of us sound like royalty, my dear.”

Athos twinkles at him. “True enough.”

They finish breakfast a little more relaxed all around, and then it’s already time they be on their way. If everything goes well they’ll be having lunch with Porthos’ family, and if not Athos has made arrangements for them in one of his favourite restaurants, both for practical purposes and to cheer Porthos up if necessary. He has also procured them a rather fancy car to take them to their destination. Belgard doesn’t live in town, a fact Porthos is rather grateful for, but two hours south in the next big city.

The drive is quiet and uneventful, apart from Athos’ occasional comments about the other drivers’ inabilities and Porthos’ frequent reminders that Athos isn’t even driving himself and has far too much experience being driven by a chauffeur in any case. It’s raining when they arrive, and Porthos carefully steers the car towards the underground garage below the preposterous high rise Belgard lives in. It’s all steel and glass and naked concrete, and Porthos wrinkles his nose looking up its grey exterior. The garage is well lit at least, and Porthos takes one of the guest parking spots, waits for Aramis and Athos to get out before he locks the car, and makes sure to memorize where they parked.

They enter the lobby through the garage, with the security code Athos received from Belgard’s secretary, and head to the elevator unmolested by the building’s security guard - possibly because Athos’ resting face in these kinds of situations is as haughty as it could possibly be, and the poor man is simply afraid for his life. The ride up the elevator is slow and stifling. Porthos has never been here before and has no idea when Belgard moved in, but it doesn’t surprise him at all that his apartment is right at the top of the building.

Athos lives in a penthouse because the building was an heirloom; he takes care of the other tenants and is some weird mixture of landlord and caretaker, always ready to spend his money on making everyone as comfortable as possible. Belgard lives in a penthouse because it fits his idea of his place in the world, on top of everyone else, blocking out their sun and looking down on them from his superior height.

Eventually the elevator stops and spits them out into an art-deco hallway, onto a carpet of such flashy design that Porthos feels almost sea-sick looking at it. He takes a deep breath and moves towards the only door in the hallway, looks around at Athos and Aramis before he rings the bell. Athos promptly reaches up to fix his shirt collar for him, and Porthos lifts his chin to grant him better access.

They’ve dressed up for the occasion, at least a little - no ties, but nice shirts and pants, and the shiny kind of shoe. Aramis still looks like a prince without his beard, albeit one out on an adventure with the stubble growing back, and Athos is well-groomed as well, had Aramis cut his hair again just a few days ago. They’re both of them remarkably handsome, and Porthos draws strength and comfort from that fact, from his pride in them.

Athos finishes his ministrations by stroking his hands over Porthos’ shoulders and giving them a squeeze, Aramis offers him a sweet little smile, and then Porthos is allowed to ring the doorbell.

The quiet in the hallway becomes stifling as they wait.

The door opens, and Porthos stands up very straight when he recognizes Belgard. His hair is longer now than it was ten years ago, and greyer, and he’s wearing an expensive suit to go with his expensive watch and flashy glasses, giving him the look of an aged actor, or maybe a fashion designer. He doesn’t look like a lawyer at all. “Porthos,” he says with the attempt of a smile. “How nice of you to come.” He takes in Athos and smiles a little wider, notices Aramis and can’t hide his confusion. “You have brought friends? … But come inside. Your sister is already here.”

Porthos’ heart beats a little faster, and he shrugs off his coat, watches Belgard as he takes it into the walk-in closet to the right of the entrance door. A quick glance around takes in the art on the wall and the polished marble making up the floor, and Porthos tries to not roll his eyes at the obvious wealth on display. Somehow this is different from the apartment he shares with Athos and Aramis - is different even from the de la Fères’ mansion. Maybe because this is so very obvious not an expression of Belgard’s personal taste, but rather the most expensive option to be had. Or maybe Porthos dislikes Belgard so much that he can’t do anything right in his book anymore. Maybe it’s both. Porthos doesn’t care either way. He doesn’t plan on spending much time here anyway.

“They insisted on accompanying me,” he rumbles when Belgard returns. “Athos you probably remember, and this is Aramis.” He doesn’t give any details, because Belgard doesn’t deserve any, and looks towards what is probably the living room, opposite from the entrance door. “Is she in there?”

“Yes,” Belgard confirms. “Come along and meet her. I think you will be quite pleased with your sister.”

He sounds horribly self-satisfied, as if the character of this girl in any way reflected upon him, and it costs Porthos quite an effort to keep himself from frowning. Any girl Belgard is pleased with cannot possibly comply with Porthos’ idea of a good person.


	5. Chapter 5

Porthos crosses the distance to the living room door and pushes it open, hesitates in the doorway. A woman is standing by the window front, taking in the view. So far she hasn’t noticed him, appears too absorbed in something she has discovered outside.

Porthos can hear Aramis and Athos talking to Belgard behind him, but doesn’t listen to a word they’re saying. He doesn’t even breathe. The inclement weather outside only emphasizes how high up they are, makes the other buildings around look small and insignificant, makes it look like his sister could step out and walk on clouds any time she chose to. Porthos has to fight a sensation of surrealism as he looks at her, has to remind himself that this is really happening - happening to _him_.

The lack of light in the room doesn’t allow him to make out any details of her face. She’s a black silhouette against the grey outside ... a slender, petite woman, with a full head of wildly curling hair. Certainly not a child.

Porthos can taste his heartbeat in his throat at the sight of her, and he’s never felt so _shy_ , so reluctant to make his presence known. This is it. This is his sister, someone related to him. He can’t help but care about this kinship, although he’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t.

Behind him in the hallway Athos is distracting Belgard by asking questions about one of the pictures on the walls, and Porthos wishes silent blessings upon his head, finally takes a step into the room, resists the impulse to close the door behind him and shut the others out.

His sister notices and turns her head towards him, and they look at each other for a few endless seconds, ere Belgard finally slips away from Athos and joins them to disrupt their moment. There’s enough artificial benevolence in his voice to wrap them all in plastic foil and keep them in a dark cupboard for an indefinite amount of time. “Porthos, this is Samara - Samara, Porthos.”

Samara doesn’t seem to mind the syrupy tone and smiles, warm and engaging. The sight does something complicated to Porthos’ heart, and he smiles back, quite automatically. He gives in to the pull and steps forward to take her hands into his and give them a gentle squeeze, feels elated by the touch. Some part of him recognizes the tone of her skin and the curl of her hair, makes note of their father’s taste in women, but he can’t care about that, not now.

“Jesus, you’re tall,” she says, and he grins a little wider, brings a little distance between them so she doesn’t have to crane her head quite so far back. But he doesn’t let go of her hands, and she makes no attempt to pull away either.

“Why don’t we all sit down,” Belgard interrupts yet again, and only now does Samara look away from Porthos’ face and notice his companions. “And who is this?”

“My boyfriends,” Porthos says promptly. He doesn’t want to test her, per se, but, just like he said before, he doesn’t want to hide either. There’s no point in lying to her now, just to confront her with the truth further down the line. There’s no need to, anyway.

Her expression freezes for a second, then she bursts out laughing, genuine merriment dancing in her eyes. “Of course they are!”

Porthos beams, relief and affection mingling in his chest. He loves her a little already. He glances at Belgard, catches him frowning, and smirks to himself. “This is Athos de la Fère,” he introduces his boys to Samara. “We’ve been friends since we were five. And this is Aramis d’Herblay. We met online a little over three years ago.”

“I see you like to mix it up,” she says, making Athos smile and Aramis blush, and looks quite pleased with that accomplishment. As far as Porthos can tell she might actually get a cookie from Athos should she decide to visit them at home. Also coffee. Her reaction to his revelation certainly merits both.

Aramis appears unable to take his eyes off her, and Porthos has to bite back a teasing remark or two. He certainly won’t expose Aramis to Belgard’s toxic attention. Instead he gently shepherds him towards the huge seating landscape in the southern corner of the room, consisting of three couches, makes sure he’s safely installed next to Athos on one couch, and sits down on the one standing opposite from them. The white leather of the seating landscape does nothing to add colour to the monochrome interior, but at least it offers them all sufficient space to stretch their legs. Belgard finally turns on a lamp to lend some help to the colourless light streaming in from outside before taking the third couch for himself.

Samara doesn’t hesitate to sit down next to Porthos, turns towards him and looks him over again. He keeps still and looks back, admires her light eyes and frank expression, and very nearly growls at Belgard to shut up when he fails to keep quiet and let them be for the third time. “Your sister is a very resourceful young woman, Porthos.” He sounds entirely too patronizing as far as Porthos is concerned, and Samara’s face goes blank for a moment. On the couch opposite, Aramis grimaces, and Athos rolls his eyes.

Porthos loves his boys. “How so?” he asks, clearly addressing his sister, but apparently Belgard fails to take the hint. “She was the one who tracked me down. I had no knowledge of her existence.”

Porthos bites his tongue in an effort to hold back the obvious retort, but Belgard seems to read the unspoken “unlike me, you mean” on his face, and subsides at last, looking angry.

“Well, obviously not,” Samara says brightly, ending the uncomfortable silence that followed Belgard’s remark. “I only learned about it a few months ago myself, and only because my Dad insisted, God bless him.”

Porthos grins and she twinkles at him. “You see what I did there, don’t you? I think you’d like him - he’s very tall as well. Anyway: my Mom met him when she was pregnant with me, and he adopted me after I was born and never said a word to me, or made me feel any less his child than my siblings. I have a brother and a sister. From him,” she adds, after a brief moment of silence. “Jesus, my family is complicated.” Porthos chuckles and nods, and she smiles up at him. “What about you?”

“No siblings,” Porthos says, with a brief glance at Belgard. “Apart from you, I mean. I grew up an orphan.” It doesn’t surprise him to see her flinch, because it’s just like Belgard to just not tell her anything. She probably got the same level of information he did. _Hey, new daughter, you have a brother - let me arrange a meeting!_

It’s unexpected of Belgard to not get in front of this. He could have spun the story in a way that doesn’t make him look like the villain … or at least less of a villain. But maybe he didn’t want to risk Porthos contradicting him at the first opportunity.

Porthos wants to ask Samara why her mother walked away from the father of her child, wants to explain to her why the atmosphere in the room is so very strained. Instead he tries to make her feel better. “Naw, don’t look so crushed, it was alright. My foster Dad is awesome, and Athos here was my faithful companion for pretty much my entire childhood. I can’t even remember the brief fraction of my life when I didn’t know him.”

Athos merely smiles and doesn’t say anything - Aramis is the one to lean forward and address her. “You have to make him show you the pictures! He was so cute as a little boy!”

Samara manages to resurrect her own smile at that and nods. “Okay then.” She looks over at Belgard and then back at Porthos, opens her mouth to ask another question, but doesn’t get any further.

“I’m being a negligent host, aren’t I,” Belgard interjects, attempting to sound light-hearted and jovial instead of stilted. “Porthos, would you assist me in providing some beverages?”

Porthos refrains from rolling his eyes and gets up. He’d readily admit that he’s _aching_ to tell Samara the whole truth, but he’ll hardly do that here. He follows Belgard into the designer kitchen that looks as if it’s never been used before and tries to relax. This is actually going quite well, all things considered.

Or not.

Belgard waits until the door falls shut behind him and attempts some sort of high-noon standoff, staring Porthos straight in the eyes. “I would appreciate a less hostile attitude.”

This time Porthos does roll his eyes and feels better for it. “I’m on my best behavior here.” He didn’t expect this attack, has no experience fighting with his father, not even from ten years ago. Athos did most of the fighting for him back then.

“Oh, are you? Is that why you brought your _boyfriends_?” Belgard spits the last word, and Porthos bristles at the blatant homophobia. “Be very careful what you say next.”

Belgard sneers. “Oh, don’t worry. All I am asking for is some basic level of respect. Remember that without me you wouldn’t even know Samara existed. From now on I expect you to acknowledge our relationship in public - and in a manner calculated to please.”

All Porthos can do is stare at him. “Are you kidding me? Do you remember what you did? Because I do. Do you actually expect me to act like the grateful son in front of her - in front of everyone?”

“Actually, I do,” Belgard says. “You see - I am her father. You’re nothing but a half-brother, and a gay one who can’t be faithful to just one person at that. Who do you think she’s going to choose if you’re actually stupid enough to make her?”

Porthos keeps staring at him, and Belgard changes his demeanor, tries out patient generosity. “All you’d have to do is display some filial fondness, and we would be fine. That shouldn’t be too hard. She’s worth that to you, isn’t she?”

“Didn’t you promise your guests some beverages?” Porthos growls instead of an answer, and Belgard smiles in an absolutely infuriating manner, and turns towards the shiny chrome monstrosity on the kitchen counter. “Certainly.”

Apparently he thinks he’s won. Fool. Porthos watches him prepare coffee for a moment, and then he averts his gaze. Samara is certainly worth many wonderful things, but he doesn’t think his integrity is among them.

“I hope everything is going well in that orphanage of yours, by the way,” Belgard says then, his tone making Porthos endlessly suspicious.

Porthos lifts his chin, squares his shoulders. “Yes.”

“Oh really,” Belgard murmurs, filling another cup with coffee Porthos just knows Athos is going to wrinkle his nose at. “Last I heard there was some sort of … ruckus.”

“Why would you hear anythin’ about my orphanage?” Porthos asks, balling his hands to fists. “D’you mean to tell me you’ve been keepin’ tabs on me for the last ten years?”

“Of course not.” Belgard sounds as dismissive as he possibly could. “I was recently approached by an enraged father seeking justice for his son, and it transpired that the son in question was assaulted by two of your … progeny.”

Porthos doesn’t flinch. What he does do is take a very deep breath and relax his hands before he hurts himself. “I shouldn’t be surprised, I guess.”

“No, you should not,” Belgard agrees smoothly. “I’m very good at what I do. People who can afford my help are eager to seek me out in times like this.”

“You mean when they have no chance of winnin’ playin’ by the rules,” Porthos grunts.

Belgard just smiles. “Another reason for you to mind your manners from now on, don’t you think?”

Porthos feels actually inclined to laugh. “Is it?” This is so like Belgard. He’s so used to people cowering before him in the courtroom that he expects to get away with behavior like this in the real world as well. Porthos fails to understand how his younger self could ever fall for this vain bully. It’s not like he was ever in need of a father. He always had the Captain.

“Oh, most definitely,” Belgard’s smile morphs into something altogether too predatory. “I haven’t accepted the case yet, but if I did, the first thing to do would be to analyze the background of the little assailants. I am almost certain that all manner of nefarious information would come to light by doing that.”

Porthos thinks of Peter, who was left at a church’s baby hatch, just like Gwen. Then he thinks of Teddy, and of how long it took for him to stop flinching at shadows, and experiences a rather strong urge to slay his father where he stands. “You’re right,” he agrees, allowing his anger to seep into the words. “Teddy’s father is in prison for beatin’ his mother to death. That’s no secret. The first two months after he came to us Teddy told everyone he met - and that includes perfect strangers on the street. If you wanna use that to try and win your case - go ahead. It won’t make me lie to Samara, or hide the fact that you’re a complete and utter bastard from her. What it will do is make me protect my kids from you, one way or another. Do you think the Prestons are the first to think they can bully us ‘cause they’re rich? Do you think we just roll over? Athos can afford some pretty spectacular lawyers, too, ones who will play by the rules and expose you for what you are.”

Porthos stops talking, his blood rushing in his ears, and takes a deep breath, tries to steady himself. Belgard didn’t even bat an eye when he told him about Teddy’s parents, and now he keeps fiddling with his coffee machine, smug smile firmly in place. It’s obvious that he still believes himself to be on the winning side, that his self-importance is too immense for prudence, not to mention some basic human decency.

Porthos stares at him in heavy silence, waiting for something, _anything_. When nothing transpires he shakes his head, and closes his eyes. This is pointless. “Don’t bother with the coffee. We’re leavin’.”


	6. Chapter 6

Porthos turns his back on Belgard and his look of disdain, puts his palm against the door separating the kitchen from the living room and pushes it open.

The sight waiting for him is not quite what he expected. Athos is still seated where he was. Aramis is not. Instead he’s in Athos’ lap, clinging to him in an effort to keep him in place. For a moment it looks as if he’s going to lose that struggle, then Athos sighs and falls against the backrest of the couch.

Porthos freezes at the sight of them, and then his gaze very slowly travels to the right, where his hand is still splayed against the door, holding it open. It’s a practical door, that one. The lack of a handle allows people burdened by kitchenware to push right through. It’s not precisely soundproof though.

Well. That certainly explains the warlike light in Athos’ eyes. Porthos clears his throat. “You okay there, kitten?”

“Are you alright?” Aramis asks back. “Should I let him go?”

Athos, after exchanging one look with Porthos, huffs and relaxes into a more comfortable position. “I am behaving myself solely for your sister’s sake. Just so you know.”

Porthos gulps. In the heat of the moment he’d almost forgotten her. Almost. Now he turns his head to gauge her mood, finds her looking stormy with outliers of lightning. She doesn’t look pleased. Not even a little.

Porthos clears his throat. “You heard all that?”

“Oh yes,” she says. “It was immensely edifying.”

Belgard appears behind Porthos in the doorway, takes one look at the hostile scenery, and _smiles_. “Ah, Samara, I am so sorry you had to witness our little squabble. I told you that your brother and I don’t always see eye to eye, did I not?”

Samara’s head turns towards him, very slowly, and Porthos swallows drily. Before she can reply, Aramis gets up from Athos’ lap at last. “You know, I was actually sad for Porthos when he told me that you abandoned him as a little boy. Now I see that having you in his life would probably have ruined him.” He sounds quite calm, conversational even, but Porthos is not the only one struck-dumb by this unexpected attack. Athos is staring up at Aramis as if he’s never seen him before. “It’s probably for the best if we leave now.”

Porthos gapes at him for what feels like half an eternity, then he feels Belgard shift his weight, feels the mood shift in the room, and turns to look at his father. Belgard doesn’t move from where he’s standing a little behind Porthos, but his intention is clear from his stance, from the look in his eyes. Aramis doesn’t shrink from him. He stands his ground, head held high, and waits for the verbal thrashing.

“I am sorry,” Belgard purrs at him. “I have forgotten your name. Do you know why? Because you and your opinion are of absolutely no relevance to me. Did you think that just because my son calls you his boyfriend you are allowed to talk to me like this? Better get used to the idea that he’s chosen you for your pretty face just as much as he’s picked Monsieur de la Fère over there for his money and connections.”

Aramis goes a little pale in reaction to that speech, while Athos turns a rather interesting shade of red. Neither of them move.

“Wow,” Samara says in the tense silence that follows. “Aren’t you sweet, father of mine. I think I’m going to follow Porthos’ good example and get the hell out of here before your genes become contagious. No wonder Mom never told me about you. Please don’t ever call me. I don’t think I need this kind of attitude in my life.”

Belgard actually manages to look taken aback at her rejection of his general everything, and Samara adopts a feral smile. “You have nothing to offer me, you see. You can keep your money and the corrupt friends you are so very proud of, because I don’t plan on becoming your bargaining chip. I don’t need you. So stay away, up here in your dungeon, and I don’t know - maybe another child of yours will spring up. One more after your own heart. It would serve you right.”

With that she sweeps off and out into the hallway, leaving them all standing in stunned silence. Porthos would laugh if he wasn’t so overwhelmed. He really wanted to hit Belgard, wanted to stop him from as much as breathing in Aramis’ direction, but something kept him back. Maybe it was the way Aramis squared his shoulders when Belgard looked at him, or the fact that Athos needed but the littlest of sparks to go off after all. Whatever it was Porthos is glad that he managed to control himself. He doesn’t need to be charged with assault this close to Christmas. It would make Jesus cry.

Samara’s little speech on the other hand might just make him weep with joy.

“We can take you along if you wanna,” he shouts after her, just as Athos gets to his feet and makes a beeline for the hallway and his coat as well, pulling Aramis with him. “How about we get lunch?”

“I would like that,” Samara shouts back. “I want to hear more about your kids. I had no idea you worked in an orphanage.”

“I shall take that case then, shall I?” Belgard barks behind them, a last pathetic attempt to gain control of the situation. “Show those children of yours how very little you are willing to do for them.”

Porthos closes his eyes and sighs. He’s never felt this exasperated with anyone, and that’s saying something. So he doesn’t turn around. Instead he takes a deep breath, and then looks up at the bare white ceiling. “No, see - I’d do anythin’ for my kids. Except, you know, lie, or cheat, or give in to such an entitled pillock as you are, just cause you think that’s how the world’s supposed to go.” This time around he doesn’t give Belgard time to reply, but steps forward, grabs his coat from Athos, and gets the hell out of that apartment.

The door falls shut behind them, and Porthos lifts his right arm, looks straight at Aramis. “Come here, kitten.”

Aramis makes a weak little noise and all but falls forward, right into the offered space. He puts his arms around Porthos and pushes into him, eyes closed, breathes him in. “What an awful man.”

“Yeah, I know,” Porthos murmurs, walking him towards the elevator. “I really didn’t expect you to call him out like that.”

“But I _had_ to,” Aramis murmurs, nuzzling Porthos’ neck. “I didn’t want Athos to straight up murder him, but something had to be said.”

“And you did it beautifully,” Athos says, pushing the elevator button for the ground floor once they’re all safely inside the cabin. “I am very glad that I did not murder him before you could say your piece.”

Samara makes a noise at that point, and Porthos meets her eyes - finds them brimming with fondness. “Welcome to the family,” he says. “Not quite what you expected, eh?”

“Oh, considering the fact that my Mom all but forbade me to contact Belgard at first, I’d say this went fairly well,” she replies, fiddling with the colourful scarf around her neck. “I’m glad I got you and your boys out of this, or I’d be somewhat devastated.”

There’s a moment of perplexed silence, and then Athos clears his throat. “You were aware of your father’s … substandard quality?”

“Oh yes,” Samara sighs. “Mom was very upfront about why she didn’t want to raise a child with him. Apparently he was both in the habit of carrying expired condoms around and turned into an utter bastard right after he’d gotten her into bed.”

Porthos sighs. “Of course he did.”

The elevator stops and releases them into the entrance hall, and Samara takes his free arm. “We’re better off without him. I can share my Dad with you if you want to. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. In fact he said so already.”

Porthos chuckles. “That’s nice of you - and him. But I think the Captain’s gonna pout if I ditch him after all these years.”

“Oh, if he’s a Captain we don’t want to make him pout,” Samara retorts. “He might turn into the next Flint if we’re not careful.” She looks up at Porthos, expression suddenly earnest. “I was so close to just cutting all ties to him after I met him for the first time. I’m glad I gave you a chance.”

“He is very bad at first impressions, is he not?” Athos comments from the sidelines.

“God, yes,” Samara groans. “I mean I only wanted to meet him to make up my own mind, and then it was like he went out of his way to make me dislike him - the full nine yards, with all the sexism and general conceitedness he could muster. I was that close to just storming out on him when he mentioned your existence.” She looks around, notices that they’re about to leave the lobby and head down towards the underground garage, and makes a little ahem noise. “Where are we going?”

“The car,” Porthos tells her. “How did you get here, by the way?”

“Train and taxi,” she says. “Lead on. I just hope the place you have in mind for lunch isn’t too far away. I’m ravenous.”

“I can call ahead and order, so everything is ready when we arrive,” Athos offers. “That is if you trust me with your food.”

“I don’t know,” Samara retorts, failing to hide her teasing smile. “Porthos, should I trust him with my food?”

“Oh, definitely - as long as he’s only orderin’ it. Any allergies? Are you a vegetarian or vegan?”

“I eat everything,” Samara discloses. “Except for eggplant. That’s like chewing on purple sponge, and I’d rather not.”

Athos nods. “Noted.”

Porthos unlocks the car and Samara calls shotgun while he gets behind the steering wheel. So Athos and Aramis slide into the back, where Aramis immediately attaches himself to Athos’ person - after putting on his seatbelt. “What are we going to do if he really sues the school?”

“We deal with it,” Athos replies curtly. “Like Porthos said - the Prestons wouldn’t be the first to abuse their money and influence like this. It usually turns out I have rather more money and influence. We should be fine. Headmistress Smith knows that my family will handle the legal side of things should push come to shove.” He looks up and at Porthos, who expectantly raises his eyebrows at him, and smiles. “The address for the restaurant is already in the navigation system, Porthos. I was afraid that something like this might happen, you see.”

“Yeah,” Porthos grunts. “Weren’t we all.” So he turns the key and starts the car, waits for the satnav to activate and scrolls through the addresses until the right one shows up.

“It won’t get a signal until you get the car outside,” Samara points out when nothing happens afterwards, and Porthos groans and shifts into reverse. “Thanks.”

“No worries,” she smiles, getting comfortable beside him. “I have to contribute something.”

Porthos grins and backs out of the parking space, gets the car to the exit and waits there for the satnav to pick up the signal. Once that’s accomplished he heads out into traffic, which is sparse at this time of day. So he’s able to cast a quick glance at Samara’s profile, marvelling at the ease with which she’s inserted herself into their group.

She catches him looking and dimples, which causes him to dimple back, naturally. She snorts. “You’re aware that you’re going to have to meet my family now, yes? Mom was pretty clear that she wanted to have nothing to do with you if you turned out to be like our ass of a father, but luckily you’re not. She’s a social worker, you see, helps people - just like you.”

“What do you do?” Aramis pipes up from the backseat, and Samara clears her throat, folds her hands and rests them in her lap. “I’m a reporter. Well, a writer really. Poems and everything. I just really like words.”

Porthos smiles to himself. “I like that.”

“Romantic poems?” Aramis wants to know, and Samara huffs out a little laugh. “Sometimes, yes.”

Aramis makes a pleased noise. “I would like to read your poems.”

“You’re sweet,” Samara tells him. “So I’m probably going to let you.”

“Where do you live?” Porthos asks next, while Aramis is busy blushing in the back seat. “Any chance you can come home with us after lunch? We live two hours away.”

Samara scrunches up her nose. “Should be possible, yes. I don’t have any appointments tomorrow morning, so I can just catch the last train from the station closest to you. In fact - let me call home and tell my Mom what just happened. I just know that she’s pretty much sitting on the phone right now - and it’s mounted to the wall.”

So they drive in silence while Samara regales her apparently very appreciative parent with the story of Belgard and the Three Knights, wherein she describes Porthos’ valiant integrity, Athos’ righteous anger, and Aramis’ brave honesty with a few concise yet charming words. “So now I’m going to have lunch with them without the Balrog of Morgoth, just like you suggested.” There’s a pause and then she sighs. “It’s a monster, Mom. An evil one, from Lord of the Rings. Dad totally would have gotten that. You fail at fantasy.” She listens for a moment and sinks deeper into the seat, playing with her scarf. “No, I’m not sad, I’m fine. Porthos is very nice. You’re going to love him, promise. I’m going to stay with him a little longer, and come home with the last train tonight, okay? Don’t you worry about me, I’m in good hands. I would tell you not to wait up, but we both know that’s not going to happen. Until later then, bye.”

She hangs up, puts her phone back into her bag, and wriggles a little in her seat before she turns around and looks at Athos. “I am hereby reminding you to order ahead!”

Thus Athos does just that, informs the restaurant to change their reservation to one person extra, and then proceeds to order steak for her, with potato wedges with sour cream on the side. Porthos’ favourite.

“Good choice,” Samara says once he’s hung up. “I love potato wedges.”

Apparently it’s a good day for family reunions after all.


	7. Chapter 7

Lunch is nice, and harmonious, and they take turns to tell each other stories about themselves and their respective families, while Samara tries and fails to steal potato wedges off Porthos’ plate. The natural conclusion is that they end up driving to the orphanage instead of the apartment afterwards. Samara insists.

“As cute as those kittens of yours sound,” she reasons from her spot on the passenger’s seat, “Peter and Teddy sound far cuter. Not to mention your _goddaughter_. Rather more important, I’d say.”

She does not regret that decision. Neither does Porthos. Seeing Samara hold Jasmin does something to him, more specifically to his poor, hapless heart.

“See, I told you,” Elodie whispers into his ear and elbows him in the ribs, possibly in an effort to make his heart resume normal activity. “You’re good.”

“You have no idea,” Porthos whispers back.

They’re in the big playroom again, and so far the kids have curbed their curiosity about the strange lady in favour of harassing Aramis and Athos and gain top secret information about their life as Porthos’ boyfriends. Naturally Athos reacts to that by telling them a lot of nonsense that makes Aramis blush and giggle in turn.

That pretty much stops as soon as Flea and Charon hit the floor. Because they aren’t subtle. Flea especially has always struggled with subtlety, but even Charon appears to be all out of restraint today. He shimmies up to Porthos and clears his throat, points at Samara with his chin. “That your sister?”

“No, it’s a random woman I abducted,” Porthos deadpans. “What do you think?”

“That you’re a lucky bastard,” Charon retorts, and marches over to Samara, who’s just now relinquishing Jasmine to Aramis. “Hi.”

Samara blinks at him, and breaks out into a smile. “Oh hi. You must be Charon!”

He nods, and she rises to her tiptoes to give him a hug, squeezes him a bit for good measure. “Thank you for taking such good care of Porthos! He’s told me a lot about you. - And you,” she adds when Flea springs out from the ground next to them like a hipster mushroom, wearing all kinds of knitwear and plaid. “I’m so pleased to meet you two!”

Flea gets her hug as well, and then she bolts from the room, leaving Porthos to grin and shake his head. What, did she think he wasn’t going to tell the Captain? Is she insane? Still his pulse goes a little quicker when she returns with the Captain in tow, literally pulling him along by his sleeve.

“May I remind you that you are no longer five,” he huffs, making absolutely no attempt to free himself from her clutches. “Will you just tell me what’s so impor-” He spots Samara and stops talking in favour of gaping, just for a second. Then he beams. “Armand Treville,” he introduces himself, offering Samara his hand. “I’m Porthos’ -”

“Dad,” she interrupts him smilingly. “Yes, I know. I’m his sister, Samara.”

He chuckles. “I assumed as much.”

“What do you mean, sister?” Peter demands at that point, planting himself next to Flea and reaching up to take her hand. “Sister like Aunt Flea, or Sister sister?”

The heads of all children present rotate to stare at the adult they trust most, achieving a somewhat even distribution. Still, the Captain wins by a few sets of eyes. “His Sister sister,” he clarifies accordingly.

The children gasp. “But how?” Teddy demands. “Where’d you come from?”

Samara and Porthos look at each other. “Story time?” Samara asks, roguish dimple at the ready.

“Story time,” Porthos agrees.

He gets out two big floor cushions from their storage spot beside the paper mache castle and lays them out in the middle of the room, watches Samara settle in and sits down beside her. The children hasten to claim the remaining cushions and form clusters of attention, eyes wide open and full of focus. Porthos starts with the basics - with how he met his father ten years ago and decided to _rather not_. Charon and Flea seize the moment to nib out of the room and make a giant batch of hot chocolate for everyone since they’re familiar with this part already.

Thanks to their shared lunch Samara is as well, thus she makes all the right faces in all the right moments, gasps and frowns and ends by clinging to Porthos’ bicep, properly enraged. “What a _douche nozzle_!”

“I know, right?” Porthos agrees, putting his arm around her shoulders. “It’s clearly thanks to our Moms that we turned out alright.”

“And adoptive Dads,” Samara adds, directing a charming smile at the Captain. “Those are important, too.”

Flea and Charon return with a trolley of hot chocolate-y goodness just in time to hear Teddy ask, in a very little voice rather unlike him. “So it’s okay if we like our foster family more than the real one?”

The silence following that question is heavy with guilt, and sadness, and some pretty intense heartache on the part of the present grown-ups. Porthos doesn’t know how he keeps the tears in check. Or even if he does. He certainly has to blink a lot. “Of course it is, buddy. Come here.”

Teddy hesitates but complies, and sits down in Porthos’ lap when prompted, allows himself to be hugged. “Of course it’s okay,” Porthos repeats, loud enough so everyone can hear him. “You’re not obliged to love anyone, not even family. Nobody has the right to demand you love ‘em, not even if they tell you they love you, alright? Love is _doin’_ , not sayin’.” He gives Teddy a squeeze. “You don’t have to feel guilty for lovin’ where your heart is - that’s just bein’ honest. And what do I always tell you?”

“That being honest about your feelings keeps you healthy,” Teddy recites obediently. He visibly perks up. “Does that mean I don’t have to eat apples anymore?”

“Nope,” Porthos grins at him. “You still gotta have your vitamins, I’m sorry.”

Teddy pouts. Porthos gives him another hug. “Wanna hear the rest of the story?”

“Yes please,” Teddy sighs. “Can I stay here?”

“You most certainly can,” Porthos says. “But we have to shift you a bit - you’re gettin’ heavy.”

So they shuffle around until Porthos’ legs no longer threaten to part ways with him, and then Samara clears her throat, a mug of hot chocolate clutched to her chest. “Who wants to hear about how Porthos and I met for the very first time today?”

She’s rewarded with a chorus of approval, and Porthos notices the Captain’s gaze wavering between the two of them as he smiles to himself, fond and pleased.

“Our father,” Samara begins, “lives in a house very unlike this one. It’s not as comfortable, or as homey, and it certainly doesn’t have such a lovely Christmas Wreath on the entrance door. It’s a skyscraper full of fancy apartments, and it’s possible that some of those apartments are actually nice to live in, but our father’s isn’t.”

“Because he’s a cave troll,” Flea interjects.

“Pretty much,” Samara agrees. “In fact, I called him the Balrog of Morgoth when I called my Mom earlier. His apartment is uncomfortable and ugly, although it has cost him a lot of money. It’s at the top of the skyscraper, and I was looking out at the clouds when Porthos sneaked up on me. I’m scared of heights, you know, but I like to test myself sometimes. That’s probably why I didn’t notice him coming in.”

That earns her several bits of information about the kids’ various fears and phobias, which basically boils down to a lot of spiders and the occasional frog. She listens to them all, nodding earnestly. “So you see I wasn’t being a b- alloon animal, pretending not to notice him,” she continues, ignoring Charon’s snort of laughter at her slip-up, “but doing my best not to faint. Anyway - Porthos came in, and I finally got a grip and turned around to look at him … and what can I say.”

Porthos grins, and she sticks out her tongue at him. “Obviously, he’s very tall, and I’m not. Which might or might not be the cause of my fear of heights. But I could hardly blame him for that, so I didn’t. Because, as you all know, he’s a pretty decent guy. Of course I didn’t _know_ that at the time, but it became pretty obvious pretty fast. Especially when he introduced his boyfriends to me, just like that. So refreshing! I tell you guys he’s right about emotional honesty and honesty in general - works like a charm.”

She sips her previously hot chocolate, licks her lips, and takes a deep breath. “So of course it had to turn a bit ugly after that. Our father was there, after all. He took Porthos to the kitchen with him under a false pretense, and once there he started to talk a lot of nonsense. Now the thing about our father’s kitchen is - it has the kind of door that swings. Such doors, dear children, are very practical, not only if your hands are full, but also if you want to break someone’s nose in a borderline comedic fashion. Ask my sister, she knows. Anyway, our father apparently wasn’t aware of the specifics of his kitchen door. I can only assume he’s not much of a … I want to say cook, but then again _host_ also comes to mind, not to mention intelligent human being.”

“We heard every single word,” Athos states dryly from his place on the window sill. “It was enraging.”

“So it was,” Samara agrees. “Being unacquainted with your Uncle Athos’ temper I briefly feared for life and limb, but your Uncle Aramis did his very best so he wouldn’t kill anyone.”

“He sat on me,” Athos clarifies when that earns him a few confused stares. Flea cackles obnoxiously.

Samara joins her. “It was wonderful! Almost made me forget the tragedy in the kitchen.”

“But what was going on in the kitchen?” Annie demands, crawling a little closer on her pillow, looking like a penguin in her black and white pullover, or possibly a very small Orca.

Samara looks to the side and at Porthos to check if it’s alright to tell the children, and he shrugs. “Go on. The truth won’t hurt them.”

So she tells them the truth. She repeats most of what was said, aided by Aramis and Athos, who hide none of their disgust and even less of their pride in Porthos when they quote his replies.

Porthos is aware of Teddy shrinking in his lap and searching eye-contact with Peter, and hugs him a little closer, letting him know it’s okay. He doesn’t wonder at it when Peter moves to sit beside him and takes Teddy’s hand, doesn’t miss the way Samara focusses on it and falters in her story.

“Anyway,” she rallies, “that’s when we got out of there, to have a very nice lunch at a very nice restaurant your Uncle Athos chose and paid for. And now we’re here.”

The children cheer, and Samara smiles, finishes her cold chocolate.

“Is he a good lawyer?” Teddy demands to know at that point, and Porthos’ heart sinks. He allows Teddy to manoeuvre around on his lap so they’re face to face, and doesn’t try to avoid the fear in the boy’s eyes. “Will he make trouble?”

The inherent desire to keep that from happening is obvious in his voice, and Porthos sighs. “Well, he’s gonna try. But you don’t have to worry about anythin’. Neither you nor Peter did anythin’ wrong. Remember that.”

“Yes, but I’ve been thinking,” Peter pipes up. “You’re always telling us that we shouldn’t give in to bullies, but I’m not sure anymore that Preston really is one? I mean, he’s always been … not nice, but you just said that bad parents can cause a lot of harm, so I wonder if we shouldn’t give him another chance? Wouldn’t it be better if we tried to … you know, make him stop doing bad things, instead of having him expelled? Like Bucky, you know?”

He locks eyes with Teddy, and they seem to converse in silence for a moment, then Teddy nods, and a faint smile blooms on his face. “I’d like that.”

Porthos cannot physically restrain himself from planting a kiss on that boy’s cheek. “Then we’re gonna do that.” Because Teddy was like Hudson, in a way. He was far from easy to handle when he came to the orphanage; he was hurt, and confused, and scared out of his mind by what had happened at his home, with his family. His decision to try and reconcile with Hudson gives Porthos hope for the future. Not only that Teddy has come this far, but that he recognizes the chance he was given, and is extending it to others in turn.

Peter gets a kiss from him as well, because he deserves all the kisses, always, and it was his idea anyway.

Samara watches him cuddle the kids, chin in hand, and sighs lustily. “My Mom’s going to adore you - possibly more than she does me. And you know what: I’m fine with that.”

 

They make a lot of plans that evening before they take Samara to catch her train. Calendars are studied, dates suggested and rejected. Aramis takes it upon himself to snap about a dozen pictures of the siblings sitting side by side, and writes some fairly excited messages to his family to appraise them of the new situation.

Athos calls his mother to inform her that a competitor has appeared on the horizon, and that she better make sure the honeycakes are especially good during this year’s Christmas celebration. “Samara is already warning us about her mother’s superior affection for Porthos, so I thought I would give you a chance to defend your title.”

His mother calls him a sugar cookie and tasks him with giving Porthos an especially firm hug. He’s very lucky indeed, Porthos decides on the way back home to the train station. Sure, Belgard is and always will be a major disappointment, but that needn’t concern Porthos. He’s allowed to focus on the family members that matter - the ones who deserve his love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays!


End file.
